by Eloisa James
“It has the qualities of the very best ices,” she said, drawing her hand away. The tearoom had gradually filled since they had first entered, and probably clients of hers were seated on the other side of the fern.
“You know so much more about delicacies than I do,” he said, his voice dark and unbearably sensual.
“The very best ices are sweet, so cold that they feel hot in the mouth. So sweet they taste bitter. So smooth that they slide down your throat.”
“And stiff,” he said. “Don’t forget stiff.”
“Mmmm, yes,” she said. “So stiff as to be . . . ravishing.”
Ward leaned forward. “How would you change that chocolate cake you just tasted, Eugenia?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I asked. If that cake had been made by your cook, would you be perfectly satisfied?”
“It’s not a question of satisfied,” she said. “It was wonderful. But . . .”
“What would you ask her to do?”
“It would benefit from a touch of cardamom,” she said readily. “Just a crackle of spice. And the texture could be improved. Perhaps by beating for another half-hour, or another egg yolk. Or one might try putting steaming water in the oven during the baking process.”
Ward sat back and grinned at her. “You are a master baker. I predict that at some point you will throw off this façade of respectability—”
“Mr. Reeve!” Eugenia squeaked. “There is nothing hypocritical about my behavior!”
“The pretense of prudence,” he said without a pause, “that stops you from eating the food you most desire. Perhaps you’ll open a pastry shop someday. Like this one.”
Eugenia scoffed. “Nonsense! I can scarcely make a sponge cake, I assure you.”
“I am confident that you could make a success of any endeavor, Eugenia.”
He sounded sincere.
She smiled, trying to ignore the way her heart was galloping, and rose. “I think we’ve had enough sweets, don’t you, Mr. Reeve?”
“I hope I do not shock the ladies in the room,” he said, also rising. “It would be best if we sat back down and talked about something more mundane, like my siblings.”
It took tremendous self-control not to glance at his breeches. Instead, they simply looked at each other, desire hanging in the air like smoke.
But his reference to his siblings struck a chord, and her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh dear,” she breathed, “we forgot to discuss the problem of Lizzie and Otis.”
“We can talk about it in the carriage,” Ward said, and nodded to Mr. Sweeney, who had brought Eugenia’s pelisse.
Ward took it from him and held it as she slipped it back on. His strong hands touched her shoulders, paused for a moment in a caress that made her knees go weak.
She felt different. Freer, as if chains had fallen away. It was ridiculous, but true.
As they moved toward the door, threading their way between now-crowded tables, she heard a growled word behind her. She glanced over her shoulder at Ward.
“The Dowager Duchess of Gilner just entered,” he said. “My grandmother.”
Oh.
Sure enough, Eugenia’s way out of the tearoom was blocked by a hard-eyed old woman with the bearing of one who had once been considered a great beauty.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Snowe,” the duchess said.
Eugenia curtsied. “Good afternoon, Your Grace.”
The lady’s violet turban was adorned with a plume so long that it swept her shoulder when she turned to Ward. “Mr. Reeve.”
“A very good afternoon to you,” Ward said, bowing.
The lady rested her hands on the ornate brass ball which topped her cane. “I am too old to prevaricate, Mr. Reeve. A Snowe’s governess is hardly enough to qualify your household to raise children of the nobility, insofar as that you are not only unmarried, but illegitimate. I would prefer that you did not contest my petition to the House of Lords. An institution in which you do not belong, I might add.”
“My father brought me up under circumstances similar to those under which I intend to bring up Lizzie and Otis,” Ward replied. “I assume you approved of his guardianship, Grandmother, since you yourself dropped me on his doorstep.”
Eugenia had the feeling this was the first time Ward had used the word “grandmother” in direct address.
Her Grace’s gloved fingers tightened on her cane, the only outward sign of irritation. “I regret that you force me to put the truth in such blunt terms, Mr. Reeve, but you are my daughter’s by-blow, and I fully expected your father to place you in the country.”
The implication was clear. To her, Ward was little more than rubbish, but legitimate children were another story.
“If their other grandmother were alive, she would beg me to raise them,” the duchess added.
Eugenia thought that the late Lady Darcy must be turning in her grave at the idea her grandchildren had any contact whatsoever with the family of the woman who seduced her fifteen-year-old son.
“You are unfit, Mr. Reeve,” the lady concluded. She shifted her eyes to Eugenia. “It is highly irregular of you to take tea with one of your clients, Mrs. Snowe. In your situation, reputation is paramount. Yours is already compromised by your choices.”
The Duchess of Gilner was one of a cabal of society despots who considered Eugenia to have irredeemably lowered herself to the level of a merchant. Most of them hid their opinions because they—or their daughters-in-law—were well aware of the crucial importance of not alienating the proprietress of Snowe’s.
The dowager was apparently incapable of such diplomacy.
Eugenia didn’t care what the lady thought of her. “I gather that you do not wish your grandchildren raised by one of my governesses,” she said, with a syrupy smile. “Should you succeed in your petition against Mr. Reeve’s guardianship, I shall be happy to direct you toward another registry. One hesitates to call other agencies lesser, but I’m confident that they will be able to find you a good enough governess in due time.”
The dowager’s eyelids twitched.
Eugenia turned to Ward and dropped a magnificent curtsy. “I am very sorry to disappoint you in this matter, Mr. Reeve, but it’s clear that Her Grace does not feel the need for her grandchildren to have one of my governesses. What a pity, since they seem to have been disadvantaged in their early life.”
The tearoom was now bustling with patrons and virtually every table was listening avidly to their conversation.
Ward picked up Eugenia’s lead. “Mrs. Snowe,” he said, voice dripping with pathos, “I implore you not to withdraw your promise to send me a governess, as a consequence of the duchess’s rash statement.”
He turned to the dowager. “As I understand it, a Snowe’s governess is essential to my orphaned wards’ future.” His voice turned cold, implacable, and decisive. “I am certain that their late father—who explicitly left them to my guardianship—would wish them to be raised with the best possible care.”
The duchess’s nose twitched as if a rotten egg had cracked nearby. “I comprehend that you are angling for better terms, Mrs. Snowe. Although it offends propriety to engage in such a distasteful negotiation in public, I shall compensate you double Mr. Reeve’s fee.”
“I was not negotiating,” Eugenia corrected her. “All London knows that I send my governesses only to the very best houses, Your Grace. I shall carefully consider your petition, should you win your lawsuit.”
And with that, she left, with Ward close behind.
Chapter Fifteen
Back in the carriage, Eugenia settled in her seat, feeling as if she’d run the gauntlet. “I see exactly why you want to keep the children under your care,” she told Ward.
“It’s a wonder my mother wasn’t even more cracked than she was,” Ward replied.
Eugenia gave him a sympathetic smile. There wasn’t much to say on that subject. She pulled aside the velvet curtains pinned to the bottom and top of the windows. Clear
ly, His Royal Highness hadn’t wanted passersby catching a glimpse of himself and Mrs. Jordan inside the carriage.
“Your coachman is headed in the wrong direction,” she exclaimed. “Did you instruct him to return to my house?”
Ward was lounging on the opposite seat, eyes eating her up with burning intensity. “No.”
She was nearly waylaid by the husky growl of his voice, the unspoken promise, but then his response sank in. “I cannot spend the day with you.” Even though the idea sent a pulse of warmth through her stomach.
She plucked the curtain aside again. “That’s Chiswick House!”
“We must be making excellent time.”
All trace of desire fled Eugenia’s body. She sat upright, feeling a jolt of alarm. “What do you mean?”
He smiled at her. “We’re heading for the post road to Oxford.”
The words whirled in her mind until they settled into place. “What? I don’t . . . What are you doing, Mr. Reeve?”
“Kidnapping you.”
She stared at him, trying to read his expression. “Are you joking?”
“Not at all.”
“Did I somehow convey the mistaken impression that I planned to visit your house?” she demanded, her voice rising as anger flooded her.
“You did not. I—”
She cut him off. “You have made an enormous mistake, Mr. Reeve.” She was so outraged she could scarcely form the words. “Turn this carriage around on the instant or I shall have you imprisoned again!”
He leaned forward. “Eugenia, please hear me out. I need your help. I’m damn well desperate. I spoke at length to Miss Lloyd-Fantil this morning, and we agreed that you are my best hope—perhaps my only hope—to keep the children.”
All morning and afternoon his voice had been light—even when it was husky with desire or laughter—but now his words were somber.
She stared at him. “If you need my help so badly, why did we dally in a teashop? Why did you not explain yourself directly?”
“Miss Lloyd-Fantil suggested I take you to Gunter’s while your trunk was being packed.”
“By Clothilde?” Eugenia asked, turning her head as if her maid had magically appeared in the carriage.
“Your maid is following in a separate conveyance, accompanied by the young woman Ruby, Snowe’s housemaid.”
Eugenia gaped at him. “Ruby as well?”
“Miss Lloyd-Fantil told me that Ruby is adaptable and used to naughty children. She’s optimistic that Ruby will be helpful. You see, Miss Midge left her post day before yesterday.”
Eugenia’s eyes rounded. “Voluntarily,” he added. “She declared my house a godless wilderness and my siblings, particularly my sister, to be heathens in word and deed.”
Eugenia felt as if the breath had been knocked out of her. Her outrage was dissolving into shock. “I’m—I’m sorry to—no, I’m appalled to hear this. My governesses do not desert their posts without extraordinary justification and ample warning, I assure you!”
“She informed me that Lizzie’s dabbling in what she referred to as the ‘black arts’ was impious, if not blasphemous, especially after she learned of the attempted conjuration of a rabbit,” Ward said. “She also has strong feelings about Otis’s insistence that his pet rat has a soul. Her instruction in evening prayers, for example, foundered after Otis refused to stop praying that Jarvis would enter heaven with him.”
In all the years she’d managed her registry, Eugenia had never had to contend with a circumstance like this. “I instruct all my governesses not to intercede in matters of doctrine. Whether or not rats have souls clearly poses a theological question that we are not qualified to answer.”
She was in shock. She couldn’t believe that Alithia Midge had deserted her post. “She left without a word of warning? Without offering six weeks’ notice?”
“In her defense, given her strong views on religion, she found my siblings dangerous to her spiritual well-being. Yesterday Lizzie refused to pray for her mother’s eternal soul, and informed Miss Midge that if Lady Lisette was in heaven, she’d prefer to go to the other place.”
“Oh dear,” Eugenia gasped.
“After that, Lizzie confessed to deliberately throwing her governess’s prayer book in the lake in an attempt to stop Miss Midge from reading aloud prayers for the dead.”
“I’m dreadfully sorry,” Eugenia said helplessly. “I’ve placed Miss Midge in two households, and while she isn’t the sweetest woman in my employ, she could be relied upon not to weep or faint.”
“Our next governess must not weep, faint, or pray,” Ward said dryly.
“All the same, this does not justify an impromptu trip to Oxford. I should be at Snowe’s, helping Susan find a third governess for you.”
Ward folded his arms across his chest. “Unfortunately, when Miss Midge decided that her soul was in mortal danger, she unburdened herself on our local vicar, Mr. Howson.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve been attending matins and ingratiating yourself with the local clergy?” Eugenia asked, hopefully.
He threw her a sardonic look. “I’m a bastard, Eugenia. The Church of England refuses to even baptize bastards, so I doubt I’d be welcome at a church service.”
“That’s terrible,” Eugenia exclaimed. “I’m sorry you are excluded.”
“I don’t give a damn. But it is essential that gossip not reach the Duchess of Gilner’s ears, so I need to placate Howson, before his outrage—Miss Midge found a kindred spirit in him—spreads beyond the village. Lizzie and I have an appointment with him tomorrow morning.”
Eugenia turned the predicament over in her mind. Ward was right: rumors of paganism at Fawkes House would destroy his defense against the duchess’s plea for guardianship. “Can you impress upon Lizzie that she can’t talk about your mother’s posthumous locale?”
“She and I have discussed the advisability of allowing people to believe that our mother is sitting on a fluffy cloud singing hymns, even if Lizzie doesn’t agree. I was fairly certain a short morning call to the church would be effective, especially if a large donation was forthcoming. But last night I learned that a bishop is paying a visit to the vicarage.”
“That is most unfortunate,” Eugenia observed.
“I daren’t wait until his visit has concluded. Pastor Howson has strong views about magic—that is to say, he believes in it.”
“For goodness’ sake,” Eugenia said. The shock she’d been feeling was quickly being replaced by exasperation. “I can’t believe that Miss Midge took those silly spells seriously.”
“I don’t believe she did, but she was horrified by my siblings’ indifference to the Anglican faith. Your assistant, Miss Lloyd-Fantil, agreed with me that the formidable directress of Snowe’s Agency would be a valuable support before the bishop.”
“I see,” Eugenia said, nodding. “Nevertheless, that doesn’t explain why you did not simply ask me. You cannot have imagined that I would refuse your request, under the circumstances.” Despite herself, a trace of hurt feelings leaked into her voice.
Ward curled his fingers around her clasped hands. “There was no doubt in my mind that you would come with me.” He gave her a wicked grin. “But I have always wanted to kidnap a woman.”
A startled laugh broke from Eugenia’s lips. “Really?”
He nodded solemnly. “Truly. Dash off into the night—”
“Afternoon,” she corrected.
“Into the afternoon—with a beautiful, witty woman, a bottle of white wine, and a cold roast chicken.”
Eugenia shook her head; this day was growing odder and odder. “Kidnapping as a fashionable pastime?”
“I’ve never done it before. But if you wish, I’d be happy to make it a regular pastime.”
“Just conceive if you had succumbed to this wayward impulse and kidnapped Miss Petunia instead.” Eugenia laughed as her exasperation melted away. “Any woman you kidnap has the right to demand marriage. You have put your future in my h
ands.”
“I don’t mind being in your hands,” Ward said. A flash of raw, sensual hunger crossed his eyes.
Eugenia felt giddy, as if champagne was fizzing in her veins. She slipped her hands from his and settled back, because it was that or lean forward and kiss him. “You are a lucky kidnapper, Mr. Ward. I am not inclined to marry again at the moment.”
“Nor am I.”
For a moment, a sense of perfect harmony filled the carriage. With a thump of her heart, Eugenia realized that they had just agreed to . . . to something.
When she was about to panic—was she truly certain that she wanted to have an affaire?—she looked at Ward again. He would readily accept it if she changed her mind.
“Miss Lloyd-Fantil assured me that as a widow, you could travel without a chaperone. But if you have even the slightest qualm, we can stop and your maid will join us in this carriage.”
“There’s no need,” Eugenia said.
Ward felt a surge of exultation.
Eugenia was his, and whether she wanted to acknowledge it or not, she would soon be his in all ways.
He felt as lustful as an untried boy, his tool rigid, fueled by desire smoldering low in his belly, his balls sending warning throbs. His response had little to do with how beautiful she was; what he found enchanting was her confidence, her wit. She was ferociously alive—at least, after she dropped the ladylike visage that she wore like a mask.
“I sense you’ve come to a decision,” he said, taking the bull by the horns.
“About what?” She cocked her head and a glowing cascade of red hair fell over her pelisse.
“About us.”
“‘Us’? There is no us.”
But in reality they were communicating without words. The true conversation was unspoken.
I’ll make you blissfully happy, he promised her. Silently.
She raised an eyebrow. But is it worth the possible loss of my reputation?
“There will be an us,” he stated aloud. “You are mine, Eugenia Snowe.”